


Seventeen

by broduced (lululele)



Category: Produce 101 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Lee Daehwi (mentioned) - Freeform, happy belated birthday to my tallest son, my first ever gen/non-shippy fanfic i love seonho so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lululele/pseuds/broduced
Summary: Sometimes, more often than he would like to admit, Seonho thinks and ponders on all the what-ifs





	Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

> i'm like almost a month late and i don't even know if this counts as a birthday fic, but happy belated birthday anyway to seonho i hope he's always happy healthy and surrounded by love
> 
> (forgive me for any mistake i wrote this in one sitting because the feels truck hit me and i suddenly needed to pour out all of my emotions)

Sometimes, more often than he would like to admit, Seonho thinks and ponders on all the what-ifs.

 

He imagines standing on stage, nothing more than a passing thought, and if he would be able to sing and dance like they do. Would he fit in with the rest of them?

 

No one is more aware of his own shortcomings than himself.

 

A three-days’ break is a short reprieve for the months he’d spent turning his life around. His home is a welcoming haven; he misses and relishes in the warmth his family unconditionally provides, but when he lies awake, alone after hours of long-overdue sleep, the ugly lump in his chest begs to get out.

 

He has not shed a tear since the night so many others poured theirs out. He didn’t feel he deserved to.

 

This time it surges out of him like a broken dam, and despite how much he wants to hold it back, to make it stop, he can’t. So he sobs into his pillow, clutching the blanket around him, and soothes his shame with the thought that no one could watch him. No one can judge him.

 

His nose is stuffy, his eyes red hot and swollen. For the first time in what feels like a long while, he does not succumb simply due to exhaustion, nor does he slip away with the looming tinge of anxiety at the edge of his mind. It’s akin to taking out a thorn in the flesh. There is the phantom pain, but the relief is greater. He sleeps with his heart at peace.

 

His mom does a double take at his face the following afternoon, but she refrains from speaking of it. It pulls out a little chuckle from him. She asks him what he wants for dinner as he goes to pet Mongshil, and he ends his answer with a thank you and I love you.

 

He is grateful.

 

 

Lying on the couch watching television, he finds it difficult to believe it’s only the second day. His body itches with the impulse to move, to memorise the lyrics, the choreography, practice, practice, practice. There was never enough time, and now that he has an abundance of it, he realises he’s a little bit lost.

 

It’s okay to rest. You’ve worked hard, you earned it, they told him, but again; no one is more aware of his own shortcomings than himself.

 

So he welcomes the tight schedule set by the company with a stronger than ever resolution to improve, to be better. To grow into the ideal he owes the people who have supported him.

 

Offers come by in a flood far surpassing his expectation, and while he’s endlessly thankful, it sets pressure on shoulders not yet prepared to start bearing. He tries to do his best – he always does – but the questioning voice is incessant.

 

Am I good enough? Will I ever be good enough?

 

He shoves it to the back of his mind. Laughs, and profusely thanks and praises the seniors working with him. They’ve been guiding and helping him, training him despite their own schedules and he wants nothing more than to make them proud.

 

 

He still keeps in contact with a lot of them. Messages, voice and video calls gradually, naturally lessen in frequency. Some of them stop altogether, but some settle into a steady constant. He follows all the debuts and activities the best he could, giving out words of support and congratulation. They do the same for him, and it’s a warmth incomparable to any other kind.

 

Kindred spirits, someone had said, and it echoes in his mind when he watches them perform.

 

The stage feels like a lifetime away.

 

He’s not sure if he yearns for it, if he’s ready to return. He spends most of his free time training to be worthy of it, and yet he’s terrified.

 

His first fanmeeting is a sold-out. His heart is wildly pumping. He can do this. He has practiced and prepared; he wants the audience to have an enjoyable time. The nerves subside as the event progresses, and he allows himself to indulge in the fun. It isn’t until the surprise VCRs sent by his label mates are shown that the tightness from his belly grows and seeps, up his body and stinging his eyes.

 

Here, surrounded by people who choose to support him despite what little he has shown, he is so, so very touched. It’s a complicated feeling. It makes his chest burst and expand with gratitude and happiness, but his tears are flowing.

 

 

Little things send him reminiscing the times when he was a participant. He still avoids eating stir-fried pork if possible. The dorm room in his company is comparably better, but also less lively. He was so used to addressing people with honorific it initially felt weird to be on the receiving end. But he’s getting used to it.

 

For the first time this year, he’s given more than a one-day break for the lunar new year holiday. Daehwi meets up with him for dinner and a walk. They talk about every little thing, gobbling up food and soda, then Wannaone comes up on TV and Daehwi chokes on his chicken. Seonho laughs at him.

 

On the way back he remembers the day of the final elimination. Daehwi had whined and asked him,

 

“What’s this, why didn’t you come?”

 

You should be up there too, he told him, and Seonho engulfed him in another hug because words were too hard to form.

 

Today, it surprises him how fast the answer comes.

 

Seventeen is a number to be proud of. Coincidentally, it’s the age he just turns into. Seonho hopes to be someone who can confidently say he’s proud of himself.

 

He will be up there, too. Soon. Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~i'm so sorry for not updating my other pd101 fic sobs~~


End file.
